Posts Tagged Punching bag
Round the corner decently, crawling, clawing
from the pre-dawn darkness and a cold garage.
All of the shades of god cover this season so
no joy shall be allowed unless you’re a Black
Friday dog with big plastic, and yes, round
the corner smoothly, but the first human to be
seen is mad as hell, sends a wicked ugly glance
with stalagmites of rotting claws made of rusted
iron gates, and it might be racial – the first
human wants to kill me – but I won’t let her.
Yet, here comes the resignation, the day being
stopped dead in the horror of swimming in
waves of elephants marching to jobs in hellish
boxes spitting out orange monkeys slashing
your tires, hoping you’re fired for not showing,
for not punching the clock, but if the tires get you
there, you shall be the punching bag. Pretty
ladies, three on the way from the work
garage and I wish they would take me away
to their soft world where we could be free.